


As we rise, the slope grows less unkind

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Character Study, Closeted Character, Community: hc_bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Headcanon, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Yeah, he shouldn't be here… but Dean still nudges around on his stool, leans closer to this guy whose name he doesn't even know yet.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	As we rise, the slope grows less unkind

**Author's Note:**

> This was very much inspired by the fact that the Purgatory in Miami that Dean referenced in 8.06 is apparently a gay bar, and the title comes from a line in Dante's _Purgatorio_.
> 
> Prompts used here are: "job-related trauma" for and, "bittersweet" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)).

"Hey, there. Can I buy you a drink?"

Dean startles, almost knocks over the bottle of beer he's nursing—Jesus Christ, it's just eight words, he shouldn't get so fucked up over eight words—and when he recovers, he forces a smile. Ends up looking at some guy who could be in the movies. He's all fine cheekbones and big lips, messy chestnut brown hair—the sort of guy that Dad would just immediately write off as a fag and tell Dean to stay away from, as though getting close to him would make Dean turn on Dad. As though getting too close to this guy would make Dean into someone else entirely, someone unrecognizable.

As though getting into this guy's personal space—or the personal space of any other guy even remotely like him—or even just being in this bar called Purgatory—would make Dean leave for Stanford, just like Sam, or else would make Dad make Dean _wish_ he'd left with Sammy, make Dean _wish_ he'd never thought about another man.

Dean's not even gay—not entirely, not with how much he's felt for Lisa Braeden and Cassie Robinson—but it wouldn't make a difference, not really, not if Dad caught him here. Dean would still be fucked, and not in the fun way. Dean's not even sure about any of this himself—he can't expect Dad to just go along with the word _bisexual_ just because Dean says it applies to him. Dad probably thinks it's just another word for _gay_ , if he knows the term at all.

"Hey, Pretty Boy," the guy says softly, and reaches over to rest a hand on Dean's shoulder, rubs at it gently, worrying his palm over Dean's leather jacket that he stole from Dad. "You okay?"

Dean sighs. He shrugs—there are so many ways he could answer that question and probably none of them are what this guy wants to hear. Not to mention how he can't exactly tell someone that he's in Miami to hunt an angry spirit, that he's taking the night off to come here because Dad traced a lead back up to South Carolina and told Dean to relax back here and stay on-call in case the spirit tries to hit somebody else. Nothing's happened since Dad left yesterday—and yeah, Dean can't trust that; yeah, he shouldn't be here, but at the motel; yeah, the last time Dean took himself some time off, he almost got Sammy killed… but this time's different.

But Dean still nudges around on his stool, leans closer to this guy whose name he doesn't even know yet. With a little shake of his head, he says, "It's nothing, just… It's my first time? In a place like this, I mean? First time looking for… well. And I can't stop thinking my Dad would kill me, if he knew."

The guy gives Dean a long look like Sammy might, frowning and making his green eyes look even bigger—is he wearing mascara? it looks like he might be, but maybe Dean just doesn't want to believe that anyone really has eyelashes like that—and he rubs circles on Dean's arm with his thumb. Flags down the bartender and tells Dean to order whatever he wants, on this guy who doesn't even know him. Not that it stays that way for long—by the time Mike behind the bar comes back with Dean's beer and the guy's wine, Dean knows that his name is Stuart and that he's a high school English teacher. Stuart knows that his name is Dean and that he devours paperbacks. Dean flubs a joke about _Slaughterhouse Five_ , and Stuart laughs at it anyway.

"Wasn't really _that_ funny," Dean mumbles into his drink. "But you like him? Vonnegut, I mean?"

"One time, he spoke at the school where I did my undergrad," Stuart says, chuckles. "I stood in line for three hours to get his autograph on my copy of _Breakfast of Champions_."

"I'd _kill_ to get that chance." Dean's not even sure that he's exaggerating that much in that statement.

"Maybe you won't have to, though. You're a student around here, right? He could come talk at wherever you end up doing your Master's."

Dean can't help blinking at Stuart—staring at him as though this might somehow make the connection make more sense. "Are you kidding?" he says, barely manages not to splutter. "I barely got a GED—I couldn't get into any self-respecting college if I wanted to. Which…" Dean shrugs. He's never even thought about this, and now that someone's forcing him to do so, he's got nothing to say.

"It's a lot of work stuff and a lot of family stuff?" Dean says as though this explains everything. "Well, they're sort of the same thing, really, but… It's my Dad. We move around a lot. College wasn't ever in the picture for me."

It was for Sam, but that's because Sam's smart enough for college—and reckless enough to separate himself from the family, from his protection.

At least Stuart doesn't force the issue further, just asks if Dean wants another beer—probably by way of the unspoken apology that glimmers behind his eyes—and when they're done, he pays up. Invites Dean into a cab—Dean's just grateful that he left the Impala back at the motel—and when they're alone in the backseat, he does the damnedest thing. Not really unexpected, just… He kisses Dean like Dean's important—he cups Dean's jaw with one hand, rests the other on Dean's thigh, and he coaxes Dean down into this gentle kiss, sucks on Dean's lower lip like he might break Dean if he kisses him too hard—even when Dean sucks back, bites on Stuart's lower lip, he takes his time about it all. Goes about it slowly, making Dean feel every little slip of lips and teeth and tongue.

And Dean kisses him back, more eagerly than he expects from himself, trying to get the air out of Stuart's lungs—because come on, what the Hell else is he supposed to do? If someone hot is kissing him, Dean's going to kiss back—he's into it, he's into Stuart, and it's not like he hasn't done this same thing with more girls than he can count in all of his twenty-three years. There's nothing different about this.

Except that Stuart is a guy. Except that Dean's never been with another guy before—even when he's had to turn tricks so he and Sam could eat, he's had the privilege of finding women who wanted him. Of never stumbling across a guy he wanted enough to risk getting found out for, even if it's just a one-night stand, like this one's gonna be, by necessity if for no other reason in particular. Even as they're kissing, Dean can't help looking over his shoulder whenever they break to catch their breath, looking out the back window of the cab like Dad's going to show up from out of nowhere and find Dean here, with his hand brushing up and down Stuart's arm, with his mouth and Stuart's all tangled up together. Like Dad just somehow knows that Dean's betraying him, the same way that Sam did, but even worse because at least Sam isn't queer.

At least, Dean's pretty sure Sam isn't queer.

Sam's probably gonna get himself a girlfriend or ten out in California because at least Sam's still as normal as anybody in their kind of life can be—and at least Sam doesn't have the chance to "accidentally" drop one of his hands into Stuart's lap, and he doesn't want to know what it's like to feel Stuart's cock inside him. He probably doesn't, anyway. Not least because he's never met Stuart.

As soon as they're up in Stuart's apartment, he's certain that's what's going to happen—Dean's kissing Stuart as soon as the door slams shut—but Stuart nudges him off and leads him to the bedroom in silence instead. Stuart laces up his fingers with Dean's, squeezes Dean's hand, only lets go when he nudges Dean down to the mattress; Dean goes where he's led without protest or comment or anything, welcomes Stuart and his gangly limbs into his lap, more than willing to get led around and told what to do. After all, what does Dean know about being with another man? Nothing, that's what. Not even the bare minimum that he might know from porn because there's no way that he could hide porn with guys in it, no way he could keep Dad from finding it and calling him out, maybe kicking him out.

He brings his hands up to Stuart's legs because that seems like something he ought to do—because it seems like the sort of thing that fits here, the sort of thing that Stuart might like—but Stuart whines at how hard Dean digs his palms into his knees. Dean sighs—leave it to him to screw up having sex, to find some way to ruin things before they've even begun. He scrapes his teeth along his lower lip, shudders maybe a bit too much as he takes a breath—and before he can say anything, Dean has Stuart's hand cupping his jaw again, has Stuart's thumb ghosting down his cheek, careful like Dean's some irreplaceable, priceless vase or something.

"Relax," Stuart tells him in a soft voice, worrying his hands all up and down Dean's shoulders again. "We won't do anything that you don't want to do, okay?"

"Well, what do _you_ want to do?" Dean asks before he can stop to think about the words flying out of his mouth—that line worked pretty well on Lisa and Cassie and Rhonda Hurley, and it's made countless girls start creaming their jeans over how _sensitive_ and _understanding_ they think he is.

Stuart, on the other hand, blinks at Dean curiously and wrinkles his nose like an irritated cat. "I'm not the one who's just had his first trip to a gay bar," he says and squeezes Dean around the arms. "Sounds to me like the guy who has less experience with this ought to call the shots, don't you think so?"

Dean isn't sure of what he thinks—he's not sure of anything right now, beyond where he is and what he means to do—but he knows that he likes blow-jobs—at least, he knows he likes receiving them—"I've never… I mean, I've eaten chicks out before, but I've never given one… Not to another dude, anyway?"

"Relax, Pretty Boy—it's okay." Stuart seals that promise with a kiss that's gentle until he nibbles on Dean's lip. Until he grinds down on Dean's lap and until he drops his hands to Dean's elbows. "Everybody's gotta start somewhere… Would it make you feel better if I talked you through it? Or if I did you first? Because I can wait on it, if it makes things easier for you."

Dean's still not sure what he thinks—he's still not sure of much beyond the way Stuart's rubbing up against him, beyond the way his lungs and stomach all twist up around themselves with a sense of _needfuckwant_ , with this ache for Stuart to please keep doing what he's doing—but he agrees. It would be easier for him if he went first. Smiling, Stuart kisses him again, brushes the backs of his fingers down Dean's cheek—then reaches down with his other hand and grabs Dean's crotch. Dean moans, whines more than he likes, and can't even manage to regret it.

*******

What Dean does regret comes in the morning, comes when he wakes up in a tangle of limbs, with his arm draped around Stuart's waist as though they actually know each other well enough for that kind of intimacy.

Blinking in the dim light from the sunrise filtering through the window, Dean tugs himself closer to Stuart, nuzzles at the back of his neck, noses at his hair—whatever shampoo he uses smells nice. Kind of floral and maybe just a little bit spicy. For a moment, Dean buries his face in Stuart's hair, in the curve of Stuart's neck.

And as he presses himself into Stuart's back, Dean wonders why it couldn't always be like this. On one hand, of course, it's because of Dean's life, because of his work. Because he's a hunter, first and foremost, and because telling Stuart about that would probably end the same way things ended with Cassie: with Dean kicked out and told never to call again.

But that's not even really what would keep Dean from this kind of life. No, it's the fact that Stuart's a guy—it's the fact that too many trips back to Miami without a ghost or a girl to show for it would make Dad get suspicious—it's the fact that, eventually, Dad would catch on, catch Dean, and then everything Dean's ever known would fall apart. More than it already has with Sammy leaving, anyway.

It's the fact that Dad wouldn't understand _bisexual_ , except as another word for _gay_ —and Dad's made his thoughts on gay men pretty clear by now.

Dean sighs, squeezes Stuart's waist and kisses the back of his neck. He makes a contented little noise, but doesn't wake up—so much for an incentive to stay, then. Dean puts his jeans back on in silence, worms into his t-shirt, doesn't lace his boots up all the way because that might slow him down, waste time that he doesn't have. He could cab it back to the motel—he has the money—but Dean walks back there instead, picks up a paper on the way.

Nothing in it looks suspicious, much less like the case they're working. At least taking the night off didn't get anybody else hurt.


End file.
